The Mark of Saturn

Lucidity is a stick, my head the drum. It beats me, forcing me to recall my whereabouts of the last two days. Beside the toilet is my two years past due light bill smeared with the residual powder I don’t remember snorting, but know I wouldn’t have just left for later. There are at least six condom wrappers ripped in half, strewn across the floor along with the other contents of my purse, though the condoms themselves aren’t in the trash; it’s been a slow couple of days I assume.

My mouth tastes like iron and the film on my teeth is more like a thick paste of congealed oil. I cough, the usual blood comes out. I wipe it off on the back of my skirt. It’s ripped; I don’t remember that. I look in the unsullied mirror at the reflection I don’t even recognize anymore. Mascara collects in the bags beneath my reddened eyes. The bruise on my cheeks is a more blue than purple now, but the memory of the beating is still very fresh.

My clothes are damp as if I had taken a shower still fully clothed. My hair is matted, tangled around the hair tie that holds only a few strands out of my face. I don’t recognize the tile on the floor; the grout is whiter than most of the places I take Johns to. The toilet seat isn’t chipped and the shower curtain isn’t hung by rusted rings.

I brush my teeth with a new toothbrush wrapped in clear plastic trying to rid the rancidness from my palette. The water soaks into my tongue like a dried sponge giving it life. A bit of toothpaste slips down my throat, activating my gag reflex. Nothing comes out, just a set of dry heaves and small amount of green bile. Sweat collects on my forehead and my eyes have turned four shades redder.

I hear a cough come from just outside the bathroom door and wonder if I’d forgotten to show the John out. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened, but ever since that night I’ve tried to be really careful about that sort of thing. I place my hand on the knob and notice that it too is nicer than normal. It’s all one color, no dents or scratches. The door is dark wood, the expensive kind, and the latch doesn’t squeak when I unlock it. Where am I?

I search my pockets for my knife as I prepare to open the door. I flip it open, trying to steady my shaking hand. I crack open the door slightly, peaking through to search the room first. A John in a dark blue button down shirt and slacks sits in a chair in the corner of the room. He’s clean cut and nothing like my usual. He uncrosses his leg then taps his foot on the floor impatiently glancing at his gold watch then up at me through the slit in the doorway.

He stands quickly, but doesn’t move. He’s broad, handsome, but stern looking. His hair is cut low, military style, but his five o’clock shadow seemed more purposeful than grown out.

“You feeling okay?” he asks; his voice sincere. Though it’s been some time since I’ve heard that tone in a man’s voice, I recognize it like an old friend I haven’t seen in awhile. I don’t answer him, but open the door fully to step out. “Do you remember me?”

Wearily I shake my head no as I step further into the room. What I thought was a motel is actually an apartment, a nice one, simply decorated. I stand in front of a plush looking bed watching him, but secretly wanting to touch the white spread that looks so comforting, so inviting.

“I’m Detective Julian Miles. I worked your case three years ago.” The name is familiar and the more I look at him the more familiar his face becomes as well.

“Where am I?” I ask feeling more at ease, but only slightly.

“My apartment, downtown.”

“How’d I get here?” I cough, swallowing down a bit of bloody mucus from the back of my throat.

“I went looking for you outside the Sterling on fifth. You were in the alley, beaten and bloody. I tried to take you the hospital, but you told me no. You passed out before I got you here. It’s been two days. You locked yourself in the bathroom yesterday.”

“What do you want?” I say harshly. I know I should thank him, but the memory of our previous encounter doesn’t let me.

“Robin, I need your help,” he says, his face covered in worry. “He’s killing again,” my heart sinks, “and this time, he isn’t targeting…”

“Hookers?” I finish his sentence. Tears well in my eyes as the memory of the smell of dried blood and rotted flesh seeps back into my nostrils. He looks down, unable to say the word directly to my face. “He’s going for women that matter now, isn’t he?”

I can still hear the screams, the sound of revving drills and clanging chains scratching along cold, wet slab. “Yeah, he is.”

“I can’t help you detective. I can’t even help myself.” I sit down on the floor instead of the bed knowing that my damp clothes would ruin the sheets. He was good to me then, still is. The drum is beating again; its incessant rhythm makes it hard to focus my eyes.

He drops to one knee, leaning in front of me clasping my chin in his hand pulling it up to look at him. He smells like cedar and vanilla, and his eyes are so gray they look blue. He turns my head and moves the hair from behind my ear where the mark is. “He took a woman last week in front of her twin girls. Three years old, Robin. He marked her with the same cross and crescent that you have. Only she didn’t get away like you did. We found her in pieces over the span of three miles in the woods just outside of town.” It’s the mark of Saturn and in three years all I can do to hide it is keep my hair down and behind my ear. “You’re the only one that has been where he keeps them and lived.”

Warm tears stream down my face. My jaw quivers. My nose starts to run, but I quickly wipe it dry. “I can’t help you.”

“Robin, please!”

“Don’t make me remember.” I close my eyes trying to let the blackness wipe the memories flooding my brain away.

He grips the back of my neck. “Robin look at me,” he pleads forcing my eyes open once again. His thumb skims the skin just below my nape. “You can do this. Help me catch him. Don’t let him keep doing this. Please.”

His eyes move left and right in rapid succession searching mine for an inkling of empathy. There’s hope in them, a twinkling of expectation of good that I can’t see in myself, but that he see’s in me. “Tell me you’ll help me.”

The pounding is even louder now. I can hear it behind my ears and eyes. I begin to shake, but whether it’s from fear or withdrawal, I’m not sure. The nightmares I’ve blocked out for three years with John’s and drugs wash over me like a tsunami, choking me, drowning me. I can’t bring myself to say it out loud because I know my mouth won’t let me. So instead I shake my head.

“You’ll help me?” he asks again, incredulous joy disguising his usual deep, melodious voice. I shake my head yes again, still unable to say the words. “Thank you,” he says gratefully. “Let’s get you cleaned up. We’ve got a lot to cover.”